


Despite All Things

by Chubbycubby



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Creampie, Cunnilingus, F/M, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-03-13 02:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubbycubby/pseuds/Chubbycubby
Summary: It's less like you got mixed up with him, and more like he got mixed up with you.[abandoned]





	1. What the Cat Dragged In

At three in the morning, you're staring out the kitchen window absently as you finish your sandwich. You spy headlights, unusual on a rural road at this hour, but not unheard of. The driver doesn't have good control of the car, fishtailing into Reinhardt's driveway and stopping at an awkward angle. You study the scene unfolding with great curiosity until the car door opens, and a man falls out clutching his side, bleeding.  
  
You drop everything as you run to the doorway, cramming your bare feet into the first boots you saw as you throw open the door. You grab Brigitte's jacket, throwing it on while you're shuffling outside.  
  
"Whoa, whoa! What happened?" you say as you approach the old man crawling up the steps. He grunts as he tries to pull himself up the ramp. You look over your shoulder to the house, screaming, "Mr. Reinhardt! Reinhardt I need help!"  
  
He usually slept soundly, but the open door let in a wicked chill that pulled him from his sleep. He wakes in annoyance, slow to recognize you calling for help, but as soon as it registered, he bounded downstairs. One moment he pushes his feet into his boots, and the next leap taking him to your side.  
  
"What's going on?" Reinhardt calls out as he approaches you crouched down, helping the masked man clot his wound. He is to the man's side in an instant, carefully lifting the man from the concrete, "Friend, I will call you an ambulance."  
  
"No, please," the man chokes out, "No ambulance, Wilhelm."  
  
The words daze Reinhardt, because he recognizes a voice he thought he would never hear again. Jack winces in pain, and Wilhelm is back to reality.  
  
With a heavy sigh he nods, "My new tenant has given stitches before," he says as walks inside, you following after. He speaks to you directly, "I will put him on the kitchen table. You will stitch him up."  
  
You did once give someone stitches, when you were ten, during the Omnic Crisis, but it was only a few on the forehead, and a haphazard job. Still, just like then, it doesn't appear that there is any other choice now. Your mind is so numb, the warm of the house barely touches your skin. You head to the sink to was your hands, trying to psych yourself up.  
  
"You do not need do it well, only do it," Reinhardt reassures you as he lays Jack on the table.  
  
"What's going on?!" a woman shouts, Bridgette, looking bewildered as she joins the scene.  
  
"Go get the stitch kit from the shop," Reinhardt says. The woman is off without a question, Reinhardt calling after, "Bring the whole first aid kit!"  
  
You're still washing your hands. This is really happening, even if your mind hasn't processed the blood in the snow, much less the blood soaking the man's shirt. Reinhardt uses his massive hands to squeeze the wound shut, hoping Jack did not feel the tremors of terror in his body.  
  
"I know you can do it," Reinhardt assures you. That same determination kept you going in the machine shop, filling you with a small sense of confidence.  
  
Bridgette returns with the tacklebox of first aid, saying, "Each stitch kit is only for five centimeters are there are only two."  
  
"You are the only one not bloody, hurry to the store. Do not tell anyone what is going on here, and be back quickly," Reinhardt replies firmly. You and Bridgette share a look before she darts off to grab her coat and keys.  
  
"Get the scissors," Reinhardt instructs you calmly. His heart is twisted into knots as he contemplates finding out Jack is alive, only to have him die in his hands,shaking such a grim thought immediately to focus on you.  
  
"You need to cut off his shirt," Reinhardt says.  
  
That was an easy task and you plunge into it, starting from the bottom and working up. This man has taken one hell of a beating and you're not sure the elderly can survive something like this, even if they are fit. You peel away the soaked shirt, focusing on Reinhardt's voice.  
  
The tacklebox was left close to you, and you grab both of the stitch kits. Ten centimeters wasn't going to cut it. You were going to need to be as stingy as possible and hope you could redo them later. You pop open the plastic wrapper and pull on a pair of medical gloves.  
  
"Con-Gel-A, first," Reinhardt says. Of course! A sort of biological glue that would keep the sides together while you stitched. You dig it out from the bottom of the box and begin shaking the plastic tube vigorously.  
  
You look over the wound, surprised to notice scar tissue towards the bottom, as if this was a gash that had reopened. You pop the top off of the rubber stopper and push down on the plunger evenly, the thin gel sinking quickly into the small spaces. The man winces weakly; this stuff was antiseptic.  
  
You already know the next step is to clean the wound and remove the excess blood. You're thorough in your dressing, if only to prepare yourself mentally. This time you had the proper needle and proper thread, you tell yourself, but the man isn't moving much, and everything feels much more critical.  
  
"Just like that," Reinhardt says, internally relieved you remember how to suture. You work rather quickly for an amateur, pulling the stitches on the tight side to squeeze a little more from the thread. Some of them pucker and roll inwards, and yet you're barely a third of the way down before you run out of your first spool.  
  
"It is okay," Reinhardt assures you, "The bottom of the wound is shallow, we might be able to just use bandages there."  
  
Reinhardt had a professional background in wounded soldiers, and he can tell this is a fresh wound under an old one. From what he could see, Jack hasn't changed much, except to maybe absorb some of Gabriel's recklessness.  
  
Gabriel. That was another thought for another time. Right now, Jack was unresponsive, not moving at all. If Jack was alive... That meant Gabriel-  
  
"I think that'll be fine," you say, applying the last butterfly bandage in the first aid kit. The wound was completely covered now, but Jack remained limp. A sob catches in your throat, but Reinhardt's hand on your shoulder stops you.  
  
"You said you have been taught how to inject."  
  
You know what he's talking about. There's a injection of Blood Builder in the first aid kit, meant to stabilize blood pressure while one waited for the paramedics. True, you lived on the streets and many a junkie had shown you their ways, but that didn't mean you were prepared to do it to another man. Your hands shake as you unbox the syringe, an old-school hand-delivery method. You quiver so much you can't even see the needle, but Reinhardt squeezes your shoulder to reassure you.  
  
"Deep breath," he says, "Find a vein."  
  
This man is lucky his is so muscular, that even in his state, his veins show. When you're done with the injection, you only wish there was more to give him because he still doesn't move. You hold your breath and wait.  
  
"Go get a shower," Reinhardt says firmly. He finds the gauze bandages in the first aid kit and gently edges himself between you and Jack.  
  
The man breathes shallowly, but you can't imagine him surviving the night. Out there, people die from far less at a far younger age. You remove the gloves, throwing them away absently before taking your phone and shuffling upstairs.  
  
Reinhardt felt too bad to make you clean up. Being a refugee from the Omnic Crisis gave you enough problems, much less this. You didn't need Jack Morrison crashing into your life here, the closest thing to stability you've ever had. If Jack dies tonight, he would never forgive him, but he trusted the super soldier is much tougher than that.  
  
That man had you to thank in more ways than one. The relatively small house was connected to a machine shop where he had hosted many of his friends in the glory days. This wasn't Reinhardt's main residence, and it had gone uninhabited until you came along.  
  
Now it was just Bridgette, you, and him, mostly tinkering and repairing old weaponry. Out here in the German countryside, there was peace and solitude, with each neighbor a few kilometers away. This was also a blessing for Jack, who had left a scarlet streak on the ramp up to the house, something Wilhelm would take care of in a moment.  
  
For now, Jack needed rest. Reinhardt gently lifts him, and carries the soldier upstairs to the children's bedroom. For the first time since waking, he manages a small smile, musing that Jack was triply lucky all of Reinhardt's children were so tall. Even for being such a big man, he would fit into the twin bed comfortably, looking positively infantile tucked into the ruffled yellow comforter.  
  
You don't emerge from the shower until the hot water runs out. You're not sure you've gotten all the blood from under your finger nails, but you're exhausted and need sleep. Dressing into your softest clothes, you dread going out there and hearing bad news. Indeed, you're crushed to see Reinhardt sitting on the small child's chair as he tends to the stranger.  
  
"You must keep this a secret," he says, without turning to you.  
  
"Is he going to be okay?" you say with a tight voice.  
  
"And once the gel dissolves, you will need to help me restitch him, better."  
  
"Yes sir," you reply softly, understanding all older soldiers were strange birds.  
  
"Thank you, for everything," he says, resigned with shame that he had been so sharp with you. Your bedroom door closes, and he can only pray you would sleep soon. Reinhardt sends Bridgette a text message explaining that she need not hurry back. She confirms she had only just gotten to the store, but would still buy every stitch kit they had anyways.  
  
The old man rises from his seat. He leans toward the door, pulling it shut softly and locking it even more quietly. He shouldn't violate Jack's privacy, but he must see it for himself. Masks like these had two switches, on either side, and after pressing them, it releases. In the darkness of moonlight reflected on snow, he sees Jack Morrison's face for the first time in six years.


	2. Obstinate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little peak into the stranger's room won't hurt, will it?

You've been detailing the stranger's car for the three days straight, armed with Q-tips and bleach. The official order is to get the car spotless; the implication is to destroy all the evidence.  
  
The alarm on your phone goes off and you're quick to drop what you're doing and yell, "Gotta do a check-in!"  
  
Reinhardt stops the drill press and calls out, "Do that, then come down to lunch. Do not bother that man, understand?"  
  
"Yes sir," you reply, with a fifty-fifty chance of being honest. You haven't seen him since the night he bled all over the lawn. Mr. Reinhardt won't even let you linger in the hall too long, which only made your curiosity stronger.  
  
First though, the check-in with your potential employer, Scratch News. This was for the opportunity of a lifetime: a job traveling the globe, reporting weekly on their topic of choice. Scratch is the reincarnation of the now defunct Vice brand, cutting edge, hip, young, with a somewhat radical take.  
  
Logging in is always stressful, because these twice weekly check-ins were used to inform candidates if they had advanced to the next round. You've made it this far, but your lack of social media followers makes you doubt you'll get the job.  
  
"Yes!" you whisper to yourself, seeing your name in the top ten list. This was the kind of wonderful moment that fills you with the confidence to do stupid things.  
  
Jack hears a soft knock that Reinhardt had warned him about. He's sure he can fend off any wild grabs for his mask, and assumes you'll bother him until he gives in. Sitting on the bed, completely dressed, he answers, "Come in."  
  
When you step in, all of that confidence vanishes. Jack makes a quick assessment of your fitness and strength, now certain you could not overpower him.  
  
"I wanted to see you alive for myself," you start.  
  
He shrugs, "Fair enough."  
  
You bypass the obvious questions of "Who are you?" and "How did you end up here?", instead asking, "Do you like sports?"  
  
"I don't do small talk," he rebukes, folding his arms over his chest.  
  
You brush off his harshness, "C'mon, Real Madrid... the Yankees-"  
  
"Fuck the Yankees."  
  
"The year is 2069 and Major League Baseball still won't impose a salary cap, amiright?" you say, but that gets no response, "So what is your favorite team?"  
  
"Cincinnati Reds," he says, arms still crossed.  
  
"I can respect that," you say with a smile too feisty to ignore.  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"Oh, I don't do small talk," you say with a smarvy grin.  
  
He doesn't want to laugh, but a chuckle escapes. It's impossible to read his expression, though, and you decide not to push your luck with the teasing.  
  
"So, about those stitches that need redone," and you say, nodding towards the stitch kit on the desk.  
  
"I'm taking care of it myself," he replies sternly.  
  
"How?" you ask, drawing a line on your torso to mimic the cut. Jack doesn't know if you're trying to be a smart ass, but it's working.  
  
"I have more experience in stitching lacerations than you," Jack adds sharply.  
  
You twist at the waist, trying to touch your back, gesturing to the contorted torso muscles, before dropping the act to say, "I believe you, but you can't do this yourself... Not right, anyways."  
  
It's a very normal, logical request, but he doesn't need you any closer.  
  
You relent quickly: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I was short on thread and tight stitches can get infected. I'm just looking out for you, man."  
  
For some reason, his body is full of mixed heat, which he quickly shakes away before he speaks, "I guess it never hurts to get a second opinion."  
  
He lifts his shirt to let you see the cut, but first you have to lean over and unspool the bandages. He usually doesn't like people this close to him, but now he finds himself holding back a comment on how good you smell, which would make this weirder than he already feels.  
  
You are totally distracted by the wound. Under the stitches, about an inch on either side, the flesh is puckered, scarred, and completely healed. You could've sworn the wound was much, much larger just three days ago, but maybe the trauma of the incident had bested your judgement. You stand up, perplexed, grabbing the stitch kit and handing it to him.  
  
"Huh?" he says, offering up a hesitant hand, but not taking it.  
  
"What? You wanted to do it," you say. A flick of the wrist offers the box again.  
  
Jack supposes the worst part, you seeing him, was over: "You should do it."  
  
You don't know what triggered this about-face, but you're willing to let it go unquestioned. You get to work, waiting until the wound was sanitized, and the bad stitches were out to speak again, "Tomorrow I need to go into town and get some papers notarized. Do you want anything?"  
  
"I don't have any money."  
  
"I didn't ask if you had money," you say in an aggressively sweet tone, "You've been through some serious shit; I think I can spring for a beer or something."  
  
Jack contemplates unwinding with a good German beer, but replies, "I'm fine."  
  
"Not even a bag of chips or something? The big supermarket has all kinds of American delicacies like Ho-Ho's and Mountain Dew."  
  
Jack holds back a goofy laugh, not wanting to interrupt your work. He insists, "I'm fine."  
  
"Lemme know if you change your mind," you say, "I'm putting in the last stitch now, actually. I'm surprised I only had to replace two... I guess I did a better job than I thought... Just gotta bandage you back up and then I'll be out of your hair."  
  
You're already in motion before he can protest. Every time your hands brush his skin, he wants to squirm away, but his resolve keeps him still. After all, how would he explain that the stitches didn't hurt, but your warm skin against his was too pleasant to endure?  
  
You hear footsteps just as you are finishing. There's no sense in trying to scramble out; You swear Mr. Reinhardt could cross the house in two strides.  
  
Wilhelm arrives in the doorway, and you offer an excuse, "Got him re-stitched!"  
  
Reinhardt addresses Jack, "I told her-"  
  
"Reinhardt," Jack says, cutting him off gently, "I asked her to come in here."  
  
You nod, happy to roll with the lie.  
  
Reinhardt lets out a dramatic sigh of relief, "I am sorry for accusing you-"  
  
"Oh no worries," you say, waving off his guilt, "You're just looking out for your friend."  
  
"I brought you food," Wilhelm says to Jack, offering up a sandwich on a plate with the slim hope that the soldier would join them for lunch. You pat the stranger's thigh twice before standing up, understanding that if the mask was coming off, neither one of you were welcome.  
  
Jack stands, following you out, "Thank you, Reinhardt."  
  
Jack takes the plate, edging out the guests until he can shut and lock the door. He double checks that the curtains are closed tightly before wedging the desk chair under the door knob. From a tactical standpoint eating under the window would be the safest option. He scarfs down his food and replaces his mask before you have even sat down to yours.  
  
"No phones at the table," Reinhardt remarks.  
  
"I know," you say, pocketing the device, "Just checking on my Scratch dashboard."  
  
"Who is that man?" Bridgette asks, changing the subject. A fair question, but you knew better than to ask.  
  
Reinhardt shakes his head, "It is not my place to introduce him."  
  
You redirect her question, "What should we call him, then?"  
  
"A hero," Reinhardt thinks, but he says, "Soldier 76" instead.  
  
You and Bridgette share a look.  
  
"I do not want anymore questions about him, please."  
  
"I understand," Bridgette replies, "So," she says as she shifts her focus to you, "are you ready to start working on that pulse rifle Soldier 76 brought in?"  
  
Reinhardt interrupts, "I think our guest's car still needs detailing."  
  
You smile, appreciating Brigitte's effort to give you a break from the tedium. You weren't as skilled as they were, and often got stuck on the most monotonous projects. That was okay though, because if you got this reporter job, you wouldn't be bored to death anymore, which was the exact problem Jack was having.  
  
Upstairs in the small room Jack does push-ups despite his wound. He knows he needs to rest, but his blood is too hot to sit still. He needed to get out all of this energy, pronto, lest he get the nerve to do something really, really stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really appreciate all the encouragement because this is a fic of a different style than I typically write, and it will be a challenge for me. Thank you for reading, thank you for the kudos, thank you for the comments!!
> 
> The best research I ever did for this fic was trying to talk to a Soldier 76 cosplayer at Tekko last year. You never realize how much you need the rest of the face to communicate until it's completely obscured.


	3. Bail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and the stranger get some strange.

Jack sits with his hands folded on his bed, listening for everyone to leave the kitchen so he could get coffee in solitude. Every morning he played this waiting game, eavesdropping on the breakfast to avoid having to speak to Brigitte. Part of him wanted to reconnect with her, more of him wanted to keep his liabilities low.

"Time to begin working," Reinhardt says cheerfully. You're trying to have a good attitude, standing up right away and forcing a smile, but you'd rather do anything other than work in the cold garage.

"I have a check-in today," you mention as you adjust the layers of your thermals.

Reinhardt smiles, even though he resents the idea of you getting this journalism job. Your Omnic Crisis Refugee Visa would let you go anywhere, true, but traveling around the globe again would make it harder for you to apply for a permanent residency. However, he always supports your ambition and asks, "Two PM again?"

"Yes sir!"

Brigitte gathers the dishes quickly before you have a chance to drag your feet on the task, saying excitedly, "We will be repairing the Teutonic armor this afternoon."

Brigitte and Wilhelm are heroes of war, so that kind of thing interests them, but personally, you resent that civilians got none of this life-saving stuff. Engineering is fascinating, and it felt great to create a something from scratch but... the general "glory of battle" attitude irritated you, when those same battles are the same reason those same people treated you like a ticking time bomb of Post-Traumatic Stress.

Or maybe this is what it's like to live in a real home where the food tasted good and there was always a blanket on your bed. Maybe you've been in refugee camps for so long that you took compassion fatigue for the par, and you weren't equipped to deal with all of the brimming familial love you were so lucky to get. Either way, you take every advantage to lollygag behind while the other two leave for work. At least this one was semi-legitimate: the sink was dripping. And so what if you took a moment to check on your friends via Instagram?

The silence drew Jack from his hiding, but upon turning the corner, he spots you in the kitchen, checking your phone.

"Morning," you say with a polite nod, standing up from the counter to free his path. Jack stands frozen in the hallway between the kitchen and the garage, unsure if he should escape back to his room or trust you to remain avoidant. He was miles from a solution when Reinhardt pokes his head in to look for you, spotting Jack first.

"Friend! I have been wanting to show you the workshop!" Reinhardt says jovially, welcoming him into the garage with a roll of the wrist. Jack wants to go; Wilhelm is, as always, a steadfast friend. Not once has he been heated over the faked death, never once asked a question about Gibraltar, Overwatch, or where the hell he's been, questions Jack feared so much he sequestered himself to his small room for twenty hours of the day.

You can sense sense the stranger's hesitation, but you know how much it would mean to Mr. Reinhardt to show his friend everything. You turn back at the American, whispering, "I got you." Jack returns the slightest of nods before he follow Reinhardt in, you trailing behind.

The workbench, the vice, the car lift, the re-magnetizing machine, the blow torch, everything was wonderful and amazing again because Reinhardt never thought he would be able to share this with his friend. He practically tossed Jack from place to place, you scurrying along trying to act like some kind of handler for Reinhardt's enthusiasm.

"And this," Reinhardt says, pushing Jack forward, "Is Brigitte, the best repairwoman the world has ever seen. She is teaching my new pupil, who certainly has the potential to surpass the teacher!"

You smile warmly, noting the stranger is shifting under Brigitte's narrowing eyes, tensing when she says, "You look familiar..."

You don't like whatever vibe is building in the air. You pull out your phone and race through your Instagram feed for a distraction

"I know who I think of. Do you follow Rich Langley?" you say, "That grandpa body builder. His videos are everywhere." You show Brigitte your phone of a man from Virginia doing pull-ups shirtless. Brigitte knows for sure that is not who she's thinking of, but...

Reinhardt grabs your phone from you, "I did not know you had an interest in body building as well," he shows the phone to Jack, "This man is a spitting image!"

Jack does look similar, but he's not so sure you have an interest in body building so much as silver foxes. He glances at you from behind the visor, taking your phone from Reinhardt's hand, and giving it back to you without comment. His focus slides back to the young knight, who is still mulling it over. Brigitte was sure that's not who she was thinking of, but she feels even farther from the answer now. Perhaps he was your friend, and she had simply assumed he was from the glory days of Overwatch due to his age.

"Back to work!" Reinhardt says. It pains him to lie to Brigitte, but for now, it's Jack's decision. Brigitte gives up racking her brain, and begins examining her work to remember where she left off. You were supposed to be shadowing her today, which would give you an excruciating amount of time to reflect on that chain of events.

Jack left in a flash, going straight upstairs without coffee. At first he tells himself he didn't know why he bolted off, but he couldn't lie to himself. Jack shrugs off the leather jacket and grabs the bar in the empty closet. You sure as hell weren't watching those videos for the technique. For one, that man could have kept his arms parallel to put less strain on joints, although it does take more muscle to do so. For two, Rick or whoever could be doing a full pull-up, like this, with his arms fully extended and the bar at the waist. Full, half, full, half...

He had to get fucking Wilhelm's surrogate daughter out of his mind. Sure you were of age, and Reinhardt didn't own you, but that wasn't the point. The point was Jack rolled up five years late, bleeding to death, and Reinhardt graciously took him in. He would just have to wear himself out with exercise and take a cold shower.

The problem was he was a super soldier, and when you came upstairs at two PM, he was still in prime form, doing push-ups in his muscle shirt with his door open. He recognizes your footsteps, suddenly taking extra care to make sure each dip is perfect. You're stunned in place as this old man glides through each rep, one after another, as if the previous one had barely touched his bones. As he dips to the floors, he reveals muscle groups you didn't even know existed.

A shiver comes over you as you dart out of the doorway.. That... was way too intense. You could see sweat on his brow, every cord of fiber in his arms... You sit down at your laptop, unable to fully shake that image from your mind, especially when you needed a distraction from your job hunt.

Every Tuesday for the last four weeks you've been logging into Scratch News as part of your job application for a traveling journalist job. People in the past have done issues like poverty in Ukraine, to the Omnic sex revolution, to the history of LSD in Japan, You can't believe the first pieces of journalism you ever produced could land you such an awesome job, but you can't undervalue your punctuality and professionalism.

At exactly two PM you refresh your browser: ONE NEW MESSAGE. You're heart is full of adrenaline when you open it. "Dear Miss..." your eyes hurriedly skim the message to the bottom:

"Congratulations on making it to the final round. The final selection will be made 26 February 2069 at 1 PM WET. No further work needs to be submitted.

With regards,

Victor Kim, Editor-in-Chief"

"Yes!" you shout.

"Good news?"

You nearly jump out of your skin. You had forgotten to close the door and the soldier had invited himself into your room and closed the door behind him. He makes your stomach do flips, having a front row seat to his beautifully sculpted body, arms folded across, still wearing his gloves and mask. He cocks an eyebrow at your silence, and your nerves force you to speak.

"This time next week I'll know if I'm going to selected for this traveling journalist job for Scratch News!"

"Traveling journalist job?" he says as you stand up from your computer chair. He really doesn't like reporters in general... "What's the scoop, then?"

"Huh?"

"As in... what topic."

"They haven't selected yet," you say, "They have a few topics in mind, and once they make their final decision on the reporter, they make the final decision on the topic."

"Sounds confusing..." Jack mutters.

You know, and you ignore him, "That's why I had to get all my doctor's records notarized the other day," you say, picking up the papers from your desk, "Had to officially prove I had all my vaccinations, liability and all that."

"That's a lot of injections," Jack says, noting the list on the front.

"I am vaccinated from AIDS to Zika," you reply, "They could send me anywhere if I get it so I gotta be prepared for everything."

"I got a lot the same ones when I was in the military," he says, "Is this one new?"

You laugh nervously, "Uh, no, that's birth control."

"That's good!" he says, voice more excited than he wanted to show. Slow down Jack, this isn't happening... You're suddenly hot all over but you're too nervous to flirt back. His expression is completely frozen to you, and you think perhaps that you wanted to hear the upturn in his speech. You absent-mindedly put your papers back on the desk, distantly trying to focus on anything else than the masked man.

The moment your eyes break from him they're pulled back by the motion of him pulling off his gloves. You watch him, trying to hold back your interest in such a small movement. You wished you had just a hint of what he was thinking, lips parted slightly as if you wanted to ask. The man takes a step towards your desk, closing you in as one arm stretches behind you to place the gloves on top of the papers and push them back. The lingering smell of his sweat makes your knees weak and your eyes wide, with mere heat separating your bodies now.

"You're cute," he says bluntly, tentatively placing his hands on your sides.  
  
You edge in closer, the fabric of your shirt touching his body, replying "Thank you..." very shyly as he edges you right into the desk so you're almost sitting on its strong oak surface.

"You look hot in those thermals," he says. Before you can respond, he's grabbed you by your hips and placed you on the desk like your weight is nothing to him. His hands slide up under your shirts, stripping them off with your help. His hands slide over your skin, as you undo your own bra, Jack pulling it off himself. Fingers roughly twist your nipples for a moment before cupping your breasts and squeezing the soft flesh. He wants that in his mouth, and badly, but the mask had to stay on no matter how hot it got under there.

He takes a step back, pulling off his skin tight shirt from under the neck plates and tossing it aside. You have already taken the lead in stripping off your pants, perhaps a little too shy to remove your panties yourself. That was fine with him, pulling everything on the bottom down at once, revealing his rock hard cock to you.

"Are you sure?" he says as he kicks off his pants, as if you could take your eyes from anything other than his huge dick.

You're hardly shy anymore, pulling down your underwear as you say, "Please fuck me."

Brimming with new confidence, Jack steps forward again and spreads your legs. He can hardly believe this has happened so quickly, but he can't waste the opportunity. He grabs his cock with one hand and traces down the slit, sighing at the apparent wetness.

The head prods your incredibly tight hole, stretching your pussy in every direction. He coats his cock in slick before totally burying it inside of you grunting as your pussy trembled around the length. He wants to take it slow, but his hips aren't listening, fucking you at a steady pace that soon turns relentless. You pitch your hips up, shaking, trying to keep your voice quiet, but _damn_ did he have a big cock.

"Fuck me, fuck me," you say in quiet pants, clearly not done with his dick. Years, years without sex has ruined his stamina, but he won't let this be the only time. He needs you again and again; your pussy was too good to only raw once. He tries to slow down, but your hips make up for his shallow thrusts, and soon you are shaking all over his dick. He white knuckles the desk, trying desperately to hold back while you got the orgasm your pretty body so rightly deserved. He closes his eyes, shutting out your desperate pants, bullets of sweat dripping down his back as your hips finally touched the desk again.

He can't endure much more. Jack pulls his cock out all at once, relishing how much wet drips down your slit already. His logical brain is telling him not to listen to his dick, but he pulls off his mask anyways and tosses it on the other side of his laptop. He easily sinks to his knees, curling his arms around your thighs so his mouth could have perfect control of your pussy.

His tongue laps up your wet, making sure to coat your clit in it to smooth out every dart of pleasure his tongue traces you out. You twitch and buck, but Jack holds you tight and doesn't allow you to escape a single moment of pleasure. His tongue curves delicately around your clit, spiraling inward ever-so-slightly. He's so unbelievably close to that place you need, his hot breath tantalizing your hole all the while. You grab his soft hair in a desperate attempt to drag him to that particular place, but Jack tilts only slightly. He knows that special place now, but uses his tongue lightly to make you blind with need.

"Please..." you whimper helplessly. His tongue swipes the tip of the clit, covering the whole thing on the next pass. He traces from the bottom of the nub to the top, kissing and sucking, before returning to the place you needed. It's too much, your hands pushing him away as he buries his face in more, inhaling the wonderful scent of woman coming for him. You're covering the man in your wet, unable to hold back when he sucked and swallowed all the wet in his mouth. He loosens his grip as you come down, letting a cold sweat take over your body as he gives two final laps before looking up at you. His fingers wipe his mouth, and blue eyes burning into you as he licks his fingers off.

You have fallen to pieces with orgasm, hazily watching him stand back up. The whole world is fuzzy, and he's pressing that enormous dick against your hole, groaning the you reached down to spread your pussy for him. He thrusts in, making you eyes roll back at the sharp pleasure of fullness. Just the size is enough for you to come on, and the relentless pounding pushes you into another tight orgasm. He was losing his breath, knowing he cannot stall his balls much longer while you coat his dick in climax. You'll never forgot those eyes looking into you, practically pleading when he says, "Can I come in you?"

"Yes! Yes!" you shout. His hips immediately pitch inward and a swell fills your pussy. This strange, old man is shooting ropes of cum inside of you and you're bouncing your hips on him, trying to get more of it. You cry out at the sheer volume of it, grabbing his shaking arms as he pumps load after load into your hole, cock still twitching as he pulls back and spurts once on the outside of your pussy once.

"Holy shit..." he says, running his hand through his sweaty hair, looking at that sloppy cream-pied pussy, "Let me," he pants a few times, "get you a towel."

"In the dirty laundry basket," you say with a weak gesture to the corner.

Jack tries to focus on searching in the bin, grabbing the first towel he saw and tosses it to you.

"You really came a lot," you mutter bashfully.

"Been awhile," he admits to you.

"I wanted to scream your name the whole time," you add.

"John."

Before he can say anything else, Reinhardt's booming voice fills the house calling for you. It's a mad scramble for clothes, and in less than a minute you're more-or-less dressed, bolting out the door to act like none of it ever happened.

Jack stands alone in your room holding his mask. He told you his name, his real name, and he couldn't blame that one on his dick. You're the first new person to learn his name in six years, but... why you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm thrilled about Brigitte's addition to the roster, since I was going to write a whole Overwatch backstory for her and now I don't have to~ I've been pretty good about anticipating things Blizzard does but let's establish some shit here so they don't retcon/change/release information that will make this story retroactively not make sense.
> 
> The current year is 2069. 6 years ago, ish, Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes were declared dead. I wanna keep the date vague, for now, in case they release the information, but we're coming up on six years. As of February it's something like 5 years and x months, if you get me. 
> 
> Jack is 55 years-old, born in 2013, he will turn 56 at some point this year. Jack definitely grew up with twitter/instagram/etc., but is unfamiliar with anything pop culture/social media that has come out in the last ten years or so (since he was/is a busy, busy man). His SEP gave him strength and endurance, but that's about it. Anything else, like the agility to fucking Spiderman up the side of a fortress, is simply from being well trained.
> 
> People that know Jack is alive: Ana, Gabe, now Reinhardt. MC does not realize this is Jack Morrison for reasons we will establish later, but mainly for the, you just banged the hottest silver fox in existence why would you even think he was some dead guy? Brigitte is... suspicious, but you threw her off for the time being. We'll see what happens with that.


	4. Impending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very long, very good, and very bad day, all in one.

The first pang of terror Jack feels is when he opens his bedroom door after being trapped inside all day. Sure, it was 2am on a Monday morning, but that didn’t mean Brigitte wouldn’t poke her head out for a midnight snack. He crosses the hall quickly, maskless, defenseless.

 

The second terror is when he slowly twists the knob to push the door handle inward. Sure, he sent you a text beforehand, but that didn’t make him feel any less a trespasser. Even as he slips inside and sees you clad in a silky camisole and black panties, he’s still not convinced he’s wanted. Only your warm smile can put that fear at ease.

 

The third terror was that you would recognize him. Sure, you had lived the ravages of war, and thus avoided the news both now and then. _Sure_ , he did not look like the magazine covers (indeed he never had), but he was Jack Morrison... You rise quietly from your bed with no trace of recognition. He meets you in the middle of the room and kisses you like it would be the last time he ever could. When he pulls away, you’re so shy you can barely look at him, but when you do, your eyes search for no name.

 

Jack melts another kiss, this time his figure practically draped over yours as his kisses become more and more passionate. You grabbed his arms, hands dwarfed by his thick biceps. He loves your soft hands on his flesh, especially when the y slide up, under his sleeves. Every ounce of your touch was far too precious to go unreciprocated, and soon his hands are circling around your waist, fingertips pawing at the lacy hem that barely touches your ass. Soon, you’re bothunable to stand the millimeters that separated you two, break away for a brief moment to peel off your shirts before your lips return to each other.

 

Jack presses his body flush against yours so excitedly you’re knocked back a step. You catch yourself, but the man is forceful in his passions and he pushes you another step, making your weak legs crumble beneath you. He’s holding you tightly, so you don’t fall, but he does break away with a bashful smile as you regain your footing.

 

“You look really good,” he says in a low, warm voice.

 

“Thank you,” is the polite reply, although there’s a hint of how cute you find his generally shy demeanor. It’s the little things, like how he shifts his weight around, and tilts his head a little as if he’s trying to hide the rose in his cheeks. John is a sweetheart, in a quiet way that never asked for so much as a thanks, but you had much more than that in mind. You take him by the waistband and pull him towards you.

 

The back of you knees hit the bed, signaling you to sit. You don’t let go of the waistband, it now tugged down to reveal those gray curls above his dick, and just the very base of the shaft, framed by his muscular figure. You were almost too stunned by the sight to do anything about it, but by now you _want_ his dick in your mouth.

 

“I don’t want you to think you have to do this,” Jack mutters quietly.

 

You don’t say anything as you pull down his pants and his cock springs out. He can see it in your eyes how much you want it as you look up at him. You move your mouth closer, but suddenly pause, wondering if perhaps he wasn’t comfortable with this after all. Jack just nods, chest already rising and falling with the sensation of your hot breath.

 

You grab the long shaft before you take it in your mouth, and Jack’s suddenly lost in a sea of ecstasy. Warm, wet flesh sucking him in, sliding down the underside of his shaft, licking it. His stomach is immediately tense and he has to close his eyes to enjoy the sensation without spilling his cum from watching his dick go in-and-out of your mouth. Your hand wraps around the rest of it and soon they’re moving together, squeezing his whole shaft between two different sensations.

 

The soft skin feels good on your tongue and his twitching hand feels good cupping your face. You suck in tightly on it as you move down, using the force to slide down it while Jack gives a short groan. He’s so hard you can feel the veins against your tongue as you continue to throat his cock as far as you can. You were out-of-practice, but every seize and sigh spurs you onward to work his dick down as well as you could.

 

There’s a noise in the hallway, a door opening. Jack pushes you away weakly, failing to do anything except quiet you. Only your tongue moves, silently working him down as you hear Brigitte walking downstairs.Once far enough away, you give him sloppy strokes with your mouth to taunt him to the edge. The moment you hear noise again though, you hold it down your throat and keep it there. You look up at him and realize he’s not breathing, on the brink of losing himself. His eyes are half-open, but he can still see you looking up at him…

 

The door closes and you resume your rhythm, giving him shallow spaces to recover before your tongue started to roll on it again. Jack had missed this sensation for the longest of times, so many lonely nights he had dreamed of it, and now you have little tears in the corner of your eyes because you’re taking it so well. He shouldn’t be doing this but you made it damn hard to refuse.

 

“Fuck, if-” you silence him with another deep throat. His tense hand gently cradles your face as he pleads in a tight voice, “Please baby, I’m gonna come.”

 

It’s already touching your throat, but you sit up straight so you can get a little more height on it, and take that much more inside. You hold it there, looking up at Jack, who suddenly grabs your hair and tries to pull you off. You suck hard to resist being taken away and in that moment, the first rope of cum goes right down your throat. The resolve to be gentlemanly is gone, and Jack is filling you with his semen without a second thought. He will never forget the look on your face as he dumps his hot load into your mouth, and especially not when it dripped down your bottom lip as you finally pulled away.

 

You can see his legs are shaking, and you feel a little smug at it, asking rhetorically “How was that?” before squeezing the last drop of semen from his dick and lapping it up. He doesn’t have the mind to reply yet, but he’s not going to let that smart attitude go unchecked. You get up and wander to the laundry basket to get an old towel to clean yourself up. John always had a _huge_ load, and it inevitably got everywhere.

 

It’s not until you stand up that you realize he’s right behind you; a moment later his cock is brushing your back. His hands go to your panties, and a kiss goes to your neck. He softly sucks the skin between kisses, slowly moving upward to avoid leaving a mark. His thumbs dip under the sides just as he pulls offbehind your ear.

 

“Can I?” he murmurs.

 

“Yes...”

 

He slides his hands down your thighs as he pulls your underwear down your body. As you step out of them, he takes the moment to kiss your pussy lips. He quickly parts the folds, dipping his tongue inside before the tip carves out the bottom of your opening. Just a quick taste before standing up again and squeezing your bare ass.

 

His cock in his right hand, he pushes in, and your legs are already shaking in anticipation. You’re tight and he has to slowly saw his cock into you pussy to gradually coat it in wet and let it glide in and out of you. Grabbing your hips to help keep you upright, he works your pussy with his dick until it’s touching your deepest walls. He holds you still as he rolls his hips into yours at a slow place that buries the shaft deep inside of you each time. It’s all you can do to keep quiet as his thick cock pushes your walls apart. He’s thorough with his fucking, making sure you felt pleasure from every place in your pussy.

 

He pulls up on your hips, changing the angle so he could feel the folds on the bottom of your opening. You’ve practically limp in his grip, your legs trembling as that thick piece fills you faster and faster.He sheathes it in you well, and a moan escapes your mouth that sends chills down his back. He shouldn’t have his mask off; he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but your pussy is too good to stop. Every time it touches deep, he begs himself not to melt right there.

 

He winds his hips against you, stirring your insides for a few indulgent moments between each deep pass. You’re mind is hazy, hardly remembering where you were or how quiet you should keep. You whimper soft cries at every motion, unsure of how you stayed upright with such a thick cock splitting your pussy. In a short moment of clarity, you think to look back at him. Your unfocused gaze sends another chill down his spine, and soon a tight coil has formed in his stomach. He wants to be inside of you all night, but you just felt too good right now. He hastens his pace, slamming into for a few moments of control he has left, the sound of his hips drilling into you filling the room.

 

A hand grabs your hair and drags you upward until his lips are at your ears whispering, “I need to come.”

 

“Fill me,” you plead.

 

“There’s still so much,” he says, voice tight as he cock tensed inside of you.

 

“Please fill me!”

 

The first swell stretches you a moment later. His grip spasms as you shake your hips, easily tipping him into climax. His hyper-sensitive cock takes every tremor as a jolt of electricity,until finally he smashes his hips against yours, leaving the only sensation his pulsing cock.After the last of it, he has to catch his breath a moment before his has the mind to pull out.

 

“Damn...” he comments as the strings of wet lead back to his dick before breaking.

 

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” you mutter as you weakly use the towel to clean off, “Those were both _huge_ loads.”

 

“I didn’t think they were that big,” he mutters dismissively before taking the towel from you to dry off, “Or is that just a lot for an old guy like me?”

 

You whirl around, flustered but he takes you in his arms with a smile and a calming kiss, “I’m just teasing you, baby… but how old do you think I am?”

 

You balk at first, “I can’t answer that.”

 

“Come on! Be honest with me,” he says.

 

“Forty-nine?” you answer with a shrug.

 

“Close, fifty-four. People have always said I have a baby face,” he says, his stomach doing flips. Why was he _offering_ information to you? Had the hormones really gone to his head?

 

John breaks away abruptly, “We should figure something else out for tonight,” he says stiffly as he puts his sweatpants back on.

 

“Huh?”

 

“With Brigitte, that was too close of a call,” he says sternly, clearly not interested in debating the fact.

 

“What about your car? It’s still parked in the garage.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be loud?”

 

“We won’t turn the engine on, but I’m thinking that might actually be too cold...”

 

His demeanor has changed once again to a lighter and more carefree version of himself, “I’ll keep you warm, don’t you worry… I’ll meet you in the kitchen, same time as tonight, and then maybe-” his confidence almost breaks but he refuses to falter, “we can spend a little more time together, talk above a whisper, you know,” he leans forward to steal another kiss, “Get some sleep.”

 

He left so quickly, you never had time to wish him the same. You grab your phone and text him, “Good night to you too! ;p” before you turn out the lamp.

 

Jack stares at the message from inside his room, smiling, with a deep pain aching in his heart. He needed to leave here, and soon, before he got too attached, if he wasn’t already.

 

\---

 

Hot shower water in the morning for you, a good dicking last night, a trip into town where you might be able to snag a beer if Brigitte feels like swinging by the gas station, all the makings of a good day. You’re practically glowing as you make your way downstairs, only glancing at John’s room once, knowing it won’t open during the daylight.

 

Brigitte is already brewing you a cup of coffee, one of those rare moments of sisterhood where you’re actually grateful to have one. She let you fix it up yourself, all the while chattering excitedly.

 

“Today is the day we will finish this engine swap and the most beautiful car in the world,” she says with dramatic optimism that seemed to run in this family.

 

Your reply is honest, “I really hope so.”

 

“Well, we know the current converter is bad, and like I said, I think it’s affecting the charge sensor. It’s not getting a read from this so it shuts down because if part of the magnet isn’t getting power, the car would,” she waves her hands to mimic the car spinning out, “so the car shuts off. That’s why it turns on, but then turns off right away.”

 

“There have been so many trials with this engine swap. I’m pretty sure we’ve replaced every part twice and the guy at the store is plotting our murder,” you comment.

 

Reinhardt enters the room, well-rested and excited, “Ah! I love to see my two girls talking about cars together! When are you going to the parts store?”

 

“As soon as you’re ready,” Brigitte answers to you.

 

“I’m ready to go right here, right now!” you answer.

 

“You’ve been so full of energy lately!” Wilhelm says excitedly.

 

You don’t like the look Brigitte is giving you; you reply, “Tomorrow I find out if I got that job or not!” there’s a pregnant pause, and you move the conversation right along saying, “I’ll drive!”, if only to break Brigitte’s unnerving smile. You don’t wait for her to protest (“But I always drive!”), you just grab the keys and head out to the garage. Playing it cool, you keep the conversation short on the way up, chattering about the new job any time the conversation went in a dangerous direction.

 

“It has been odd to have a faceless man around.”

 

“The best part of this job is that they set up a lot of the interviews for you!”

 

And so-on until you’ve arrived at the store, and must argue for the return of thecharge converter for the better portion of twenty minutes.

 

Back at home, Jack has just descended downstairs, confident that Brigitte was not around, but not secure enough to leave his mask upstairs. He glances into the kitchen to see Reinhardt sitting at the kitchen table, deep in some kind of serious thought. Jack waits for Wilhelm to open the conversation as he pours himself a mug of coffee, but the Teutonic Knight remains silent.

 

As he he sits down, Jack says, “What’s on your mind?”

 

“Oh,” Wilhelm shakes out of it, “Not much.”

 

“You always wore your heart on your sleeve,” Jack comments, taking a sip, “What’s changed?”

 

It’s one thing to compose his thoughts, it’s another to press them into English, but after careful consideration he replies, “Do you know how I came to take her in?”

 

Brigitte was his godchild, so Jack can only assume he means you, “No, how?”

 

“There was a riot, Jack, in Berlin. A former Overwatch treasurer embezzled… fifty _million_ Euros to go towards resettling refugees. He was sentences to just ten days in jail.”

 

Jack looks at the table plaintively, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh no,” Wilhelm waves him off before speaking again, “All of this, the theft, the trial, all of it happened after you died- Well, you know what I mean,” which doesn’t make Jack feel any better, but he let’s his friend continue, “There was a big crowd gathered to watch the sentencing at a public screening, held by an anti-Overwatch group-”

 

Jack interjects, “And you were among them?”

 

“It was open to anybody,” Wilhelm firmly replies, adjusting in his seat, “I want to understand, Jack.”

 

“I do too,” Jack replies with a sage nod, the unspoken understanding that Jack still wasn’t in agreement with the choice of company.

 

Reinhardt shakes his head, “Things escalated quickly. They wanted to storm the building, demand justice, but you know how that usually goes.The police came quickly. She was being taken away. I told the police she was with me.”

 

“Without actually knowing her?” Jack clarifies.

 

“Yes, and for no other reason than we served with the man who was arresting her, total luck,” Wilhelm said, “That was the first stroke of luck, the second happened inside the station. She did not want to be released into the custody of a man she did not know-”

 

“She didn’t know who you are?” Jack asks skeptically, knowing that Reinhardt might as well be the flag, he was such a well-known hero.

 

“She isn’t very familiar with the Golden Age of Overwatch,” Reinhardt says with a frown.

 

“ _Good to know_ ,” Jack thinks, responding aloud, “Anyways, the second stroke of luck.

 

“Oh, yes, yes, her friend was passing by, also being arrested, and told her that I ‘was one of the good ones’. So, trusting her friends word, she agreed to let me take her to the big house and meet my family. She wasn’t very open until she met Brigitte. That was about two weeks after she came to stay with us. Now my family is just a little bit bigger.”

 

“That was lucky,” Jack comments, smiling warmly, his heart dying to hear more, but his mind panicking that this was about to segue into a “What are your intentions with my daughter?” kind of discussion.

 

“It was,” Wilhelm replies, “I don’t think she’s had a family for awhile. She’s lived here a few years, until the Omnics leveled that town, then here for a month,” he gestures, rolling his hand to show the progression of time, “Ah, but I shouldn’t tell much more of her private business.”

 

“Understandable.”

 

“After all, I am just happy to be in the old house again,” Wilhelm says with a pleasant smile as he looks around.

 

“I had hoped you still owned this place,” Jack comments.

 

“Yes, that does bring up the question of what brought you here that night...”

 

“I couldn’t let my body be found.”

 

The retort is sharp, “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

 

Jack can’t even look him in the eye, “Wilhelm… please...”

 

“Can you at least answer me why you will not tell Brigitte you are alive?” he presses.

 

“Because…” he takes a deep breath, “I am ashamed,” it doesn’t seem those three words would suffice for his host, “I can barely face you… That’s why- I need to leave soon.”

 

“Jack… you’re a hero-”

 

“Stop!” he says, “I don’t want to be a _hero_!”

 

Which begs Wilhelm to ask: “What do you want to be?”

 

“Who knows?! Not me! And if not me, who would?” Jack says, angry, at himself, the situation, the conflict he was bringing on himself. He takes a second to collect his thoughts, saying a little more calmly, “It’s _complicated_ and I know it isn’t, but it is.”

 

“I understand, but I hope you would consider her feelings,” but Wilhelm knows that Jack has no reply for that kind of thing, so he asks, “Then Ana is alive and knows you’re alive?”

 

“Old soldiers are hard to kill,” Jack says, calming down. He would rather be bleeding in that car right now than being interrogated, but he couldn’t be unfair to the man giving him a roof, food, and someone to talk to.

 

Wilhelm finishes, “Then it only stands to reason Gabe is alive too...”

 

Jack’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he so rarely got messages, he snatched it up immediately.

 

Lifesaver: Hey! So, Brigitte was asking all kinds of questions about you. I told her you wore a mask because your face is really disfigured, and you’re self conscious about it. I also told her your name is Jim, and that we met previous to this, but I asked her not to make me snitch on you.”

 

Lifesaver: I promise she’s not usually like this. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.

 

“Is that her?” Wilhelm interrupts, and Jack nearly jumps out of his skin.

 

“What? Oh, no, this is your other daughter.”

 

“Oh,” Wilhelm says abruptly, in some type of way.

.

“We met awhile ago, briefly. I didn’t recognize her at first, but I guess the mask is memorable,” Jack says, feeling like his lie made things worse.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah it was at a charge station,” he says, all the while texting, filling you in on the details of _his_ end of the lie.

 

“Small world!” Reinhardt says excitedly, having taken the whole thing hook-line-and-sinker.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says with a strained smile, “Anyways, they’ll be back in ten, so I’m going upstairs.”

 

“Alright,” Wilhelm says, “And Jack?”

 

“Yeah?” he says, still hiding the fatigue the questioning gave him.

 

“Give Ana my best. Tell her she’s not off the hook until she visits.”

 

Jack laughs, saying, “Alright, I’ll tell her,” before walking upstairs. True to your word, ten minutes later, you and Brigitte are home.

 

“We’ve arrived!” you call out cheerily when you open the door.

 

“It’s gonna be done! All we have to do is put this block in, and reinstall the electrical assembly!” Brigitte says.

 

“You say that like it’s that easy,” you tease.

 

“You say that like you’re not going to help,” she jabs back.

 

And indeed, for the better part of five hours, you’re “just” reinstalling the electrical assembly, which is a game of “Wait now this needs to before before that can go into there”. At one point, you’re both sure you’ve figured it out, only to find an orphaned sensor in the bolt pile, at which point you’re grateful that dinner is ready.

 

“You should go up and eat with him,” Brigitte says quietly, “He must be lonely up there all day.”

 

Reinhardt stops in his tracks, but you’re fixing Jack a plate unfazed, so he says, “He may not want to eat with you.”

 

“That’s okay,” you say patiently, “He’s been through a lot.”

Like a well-trained server you balance two plates on one arm and hold two glasses in the other, climbing the stairs once again, eyes fixed on his door. Without a free hand, you’re left to softly kick on the door to knock, calling out, “It’s me! I brought food!”

 

John opens the door slightly and you slip inside quickly so he can shut it again.

 

“Wilhelm makes a mean tuna casserole,” you comment, “but I still prefer Mama Bear’s cooking.”

 

Jack takes the plate from you, “You’ve met his wife?”

 

“I’ve met the whole family! Their new house is not very far from here. Sometimes we go up there and do more stuff like electrical work. Down here we work on cars because of the enormous garage,” you explain.

 

Jack pulls out the desk chair for you, as you lower the glasses of soda onto the desk. After placing the plates down as well you sit, and he actually pushes the chair in for you before he takes his own seat on the bed only a couple feet from the bed.

 

“You know, I heard the Cardinals spring training is going really well. This year might be their year,” you say.

 

“They made it to the play-offs last year,” he comments, although he is woefully out-of-date with his team. He can’t even remember that last time he watched a game on TV, much less live...

 

“I saw it in a video on Instagram,” you continue, “I gotta get better at social media because these journalists have to update every single day.”

 

“Every day?”

 

“Gotta build up the hype,” you say, but then dismissively shrug, “I mean, not that I’m gonna get selected.”

 

“Don’t doubt yourself. This has been a long process, from what you’ve told me. You still got a shot,” Jack says matter-of-factly.

 

“Tomorrow is the day…” you say, “I really-” you cut yourself off from talking too much.

 

“You really…?”

 

“I really hope I get it. I know Mr. Reinhardt would probably be happier if I didn’t, though.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Some of the topics are a little… taboo, risque, you know. He’s worried I’ll be assigned something like Fatima’s _The Rise of the South American Trip_ , which was about all those hallucinogens they found in the Amazon, and how that started a whole illicit drug business.”

 

“That sounds pretty intense.”

 

“And it was,” you say, “She had never drank alcohol or done a drug previous to that assignment. It was absolutely wild, but it was so well-written...”

 

“I’m not sure if you envy or idolize her.”

 

“Both,” you say, “There’s no way I would even remember what _language_ is if I went through what she did, but she produced amazing articles.”

 

“So what’s this topic then?” Jack asks.

 

“They haven’t decided- Wow, you eat fast,” you can’t help but point out because his plate is already spotless, “Do you want some more?”

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“I want to,” you say nicely, and you whisk his plate away for a quick refill downstairs.

 

As you walk away, Jack realizes he’s got it bad. You’ve been nothing but an angel to him, for no real reason. Why waste all this energy on him? Was it just because you were a nice person, or were the same kinds of feelings growing inside of you? Or perhaps you were in it for a quick thrill, in which case, he better not disappoint tonight.

 

When you return, Jack spends every second trying to analyze what you’re saying, how you’re acting, trying to glean the information together.You, for the most part, are just chattering because you’re nervous. He has a sweet smile and soft eyes, and he always encourages you to finish your story or say what was on your mind, if only because he hoped at every turn you’d say something that meant you definitively liked him. Truthfully, he needs to just ask you, but now doesn’t feel like the right time...

 

“I’m looking forward to tonight, though,” you say after your last bite of food.

 

“Me too,” he says, deciding that would be the time to be honest with you about at least one thing.

 

“Are you sure it’s not gonna be too cold?” you ask in the politest of tones.

 

Jack smiles and gives you side eye, “What’re you trying to say?”

 

“It’s really coming down out there!” you say, commenting on the sheets of snow, “When there’s a lot of snow on the ground it can make the garage even colder.”

 

Jack stands up so he can lean forward and kiss your ear, whispering, “Bring a blanket. I’ll be warm enough for the both of us,” you giggle and he goes on in a lower voice, “It’s never too late to break in the back seat.

 

Reinahrdt’s voice booms through the entire house, “Brigitte would like to take us for a ride in the Audi before it gets worse out. You are both welcome to join!”

 

You look at John, and he shakes his head. You shout back, “I’m gonna go, Soldier 76 will stay here,” then at a normal volume say with a teasing smile, “You are your one hundred names. Jim, John, Soldier...”

 

No words could’ve made him feel worse. You show him nothing but kindness and then not only does he lie to you, but hope that you love that lie? Of course he didn’t want to be Jack Morrison, but Soldier 76 was different. That was a faceless figure, just a soldier, like a mechanical cog with no cognition. This whole John identity was flat out reincarnation, not to wallow in his sins but throw a blanket on it and build a new self on top.

 

Which, in all practicality, wasn’t that bad, but the fact he even _had_ that thought was _fucking terrible._ No matter how much he wants to spend time with you, he cannot. Cannot. Tell you his real identity. It is 100% off-the-table, and as such, he cannot allow himself to pursue your affection in any amount.

 

Jack presses the pillow over his head to perhaps quell the inner argument in his mind. He had to leave before he got any more attached to you. It was a hypocritical resolve, because simultaneously he was checking the time, growing more excited to see you with each passing hour. He _had_ to leave soon, he told himself as he tip-toed downstairs, to see you in the kitchen, the low light on the stove hood the only illumination.

 

Silently, you offer him a beer, and he takes it before you pick up your own. It’s not a brand he recognizes, but there’s some relief in the ritual, even watching you struggle with the bottlecap.

 

“I think don’t think it’s a twist-off, champ,” he says to your struggling face. He knows how to open a brew with the zipper pull on his jacket, and even manages to catch the cap despite being a bit rusty. He’s showing off, and he knows it, but… well a _little_ more flirtation can’t hurt. He trades his for yours, performing the same trick twice with a big grin on his face.

 

“Learned that in basic,” he says quietly

 

“What branch were you in?” you ask casually, taking a sip of the mellow brew.

 

“Marines,” Jack said, which was partially true, he supposed. That was what he _originally_ signed up for anyways, and he went through basic training as a Marine… He puts his hand on your back and guides you forward, “C’mon...”

 

You’re giddy to move towards the garage, but the door had to be navigated deftly. The door on the other side of the garage was the quietest thing, but of course the one connected to the house could groan if not opened carefully. With a learned hand, you deftly open the door.

 

Jack’s his eyes fix on the loft filled with spare fenders and such, his gaze fixed on a silhouette illuminated by the moonlit snow. Soon, you notice his tension, and follow his stare to the source. At the second set of eyes, the shadow moves, and in that instant, John sprints towards the loft, climbing ladder rungs two-at-a-time. The figure is trapped, and just as John reaches the top it jumps down. There’s hard concrete below, but the intruder tuck-and-rolls, on his feet in a second. Jack scrambles down the ladder, not willing to risk a fractured bone. You give chasing, following the invader through the garage door to the outside. As soon as you come outside, you realize you’ve lost sight of them, followed by a sucker punch to the stomach that drops you to the floor.

 

Jack crashes out the door but stops dead in the snow to see you lying on your back gasping for air. He glances up to the escaping criminal and realizes super soldier or not, he wasn’t winning a foot pursuit in snow with what he was wearing. Besides, you were shivering in the snow, probably too cold to get yourself up anyways.

 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, kneeling down to lift you from the powder.

 

“What’s happened?” Brigitte says as she turns on the garage lights, serving only to disorient you further.

 

Jack tries to look away, but his face is exposed. There’s nothing left but the truth, so he speaks it, “There was an intruder.”

 

“What is going on?” Wilhelm asks before that sentence is even done.

 

“There was an intruder,” Jack answers calmly, “I need to get her inside.”

 

“How did this happen?” Reinhardt said.

 

“He punched her in the gut, knocked the wind out of her, and then some degree of shock probably set in from laying in the snow,” he explains, pushing his way past them, ready to be interrogated, but only after you were safe.

 

“Let me down,” you mutter dizzily, “I just need a hot shower.”

 

“You should be careful of causing more shock to your body,” Brigitte adds, “Don’t take a hot shower, take a warm one. And I will get _you_ ,” she says to Jack, “a warm foot bath.

 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Jack insists, suddenly realizing he had stood in the snow too, and he was bitter cold.

 

“I insist,” she says, and since his last excuse was that he was carrying you, of course Reinhardt took you from him, carrying you upstairs to get warm and dry.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” he says. Brigitte turns on a dime and enters the kitchen. Jack seats himself and wait for a reply, which comes only after careful consideration.

 

“I understand,” she says, “Maybe not agree, but I understand,” she opens the cabinet under the sink and dumps all the cleaning chemicals out of it before filling it with warm water, “My real question is, are you lying to my sister, or does she know who you are? She never recognized you in photographs...”

 

Reinhardt, meanwhile, is downstairs putting on his coat, which is a thankful distraction Jack can capitalize on, piping up, “Where are you going?”

 

“To _talk_ with the neighbor,” he says firmly before clamoring out the door, filled with enough rage to make the trek on foot.

 

With Wilhelm’s exit, Brigitte corrals the conversation back in, “The neighbor’s son has been caught peeping before, and you know how protective Wilhelm is of he daughters, and I of my sisters...”

 

“I can’t tell her until I can trust her,” he protests.

 

“She has already lied for you and saved your life, what more do you want?” Brigitte snaps.

 

“That doesn’t mean she might not make any number of amateur mistakes when it comes to keeping information secure,” Jack says, frustrated that he sounds like an obnoxious briefing.

 

“You have to tell her sometime,” she says, finally shutting off the tap, “if you don’t, I will.”

 

“You can’t-” Jack says pathetically as she places the tub at his feet.

 

“It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, or next week, but she is very good to you, isn’t she?”

 

“Yes...”

 

“And she is very important to you, yes?” she presses.

 

He mumbles, “Yeah...”

 

“And she deserves to know, doesn’t she?”

 

“Yes,” he answers in anguish. The best answer was that he needed to leave, immediately, ideally right this second because he’s not sure he could ever tell you good-bye, but you did deserve one, didn’t you?

 

/ / /

 

“Agent Nolan,” the good doctor says via video call, “How was your scouting mission?”

 

Agent Nolan is about to be Agent Dead if he can’t bluff, “It was successful”

 

“How many connections to other people does she have?”

 

“Two,” he replies. He never knew about the third person in the house until tonight, and he wasn’t about to risk his skin to correct his mistakes.

 

“Any issues?”

 

“None,” he lies.

 

“You’ve served us well in the candidate selection process. You will be handsomely rewarded, of course,” she replies.

 

Agent Nolan’s face eases, “Thank you, Dr. O’Deorain, I look forward to working with you in the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Sorry about the delay. Writing this chapter has been a nightmare, even publishing it didn't go well. Hopefully this being done gets me out of the unbelievably shitty writing funk I've been in. I hope you still enjoyed it though!


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